


And Their Sons

by Oinkadoink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, Family, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Parent Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-17 16:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oinkadoink/pseuds/Oinkadoink
Summary: It was only a week. One week of playing the fun uncles and keeping a four-year-old from harm's way. Millions far less qualified do so for 18 years straight.That didn't make the prospect any less terrifying.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am once again diving into the Holmes brothers' dynamic via Mycroft's family.
> 
> This is essentially a fluffy antidote to my fic Those Who Were Children, however there is no need to have read it first!!! Both are intended to work as standalones.

Sherlock glanced at the caller id for less than a second before rolling his eyes and pocketing his mobile.

“Mycroft?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed in affirmative while peeking beneath the coat of the bloated corpse beneath him. “Look at the fingernails.”

John peered closer. “Bit to the quick. Nervous habit?”

“Obviously; nervous habit, engrained since his parents’ divorce, but can’t you see what it _means_?”

“Are you seriously asking for my opinion, or are you just looking for another way to show off?”

Sherlock’s face soured.

John decided to change the subject. “What does Mycroft want?”

“Oh, help on a case he’s too stupid to solve, or something about _finances,_ or perhaps its mummy’s birthday. I don’t know. If it’s important he’ll tell you.”

“Sherlock—” and here John’s voice took on the exasperated scolding tone Sherlock was all too familiar with, “I can’t be the messenger between you and your brother all the time. You’ve got to learn to communicate, or—or at least have him wait until I’ve nothing going on before he kidnaps me. I’ve already had to reschedule tonight’s date twice thanks to this case alone.”

“If you’ve rescheduled twice without incident, she’s either desperate or boring with nothing else to occupy her time. If the former, I’d say you’d get maybe one good shag in before her clinging becomes too much. If the latter, I doubt you’d make it a single night before growing bored of her yourself. Either way—completely unsuited for you.”

“You’re always saying that about my dates—and ok, they’ve not all been winners, but she’s— she’s quite nice and—”

“Ah, boring it is, then.” And Sherlock pocketed his magnifying glass before standing abruptly. “Right, John! There’s a gymnast in Streatham we’ve got to find before he gets a rather nasty case of cyanide poisoning. Come along!”

~~~

By the time the case was over, John had nearly forgotten about Mycroft’s phone call. On his way home from the clinic he made a quick stop at the nearby Tesco’s. When he left the store, the sight of a black car let him know that he wouldn’t be home for a while. With a sigh, John shifted his messenger bag and shopping to one side, opened the door and shuffled in beside Anthea.

“You know,” John began, glancing at Anthea as she continued to act like he didn’t exist, “you should tell your boss that when wants his brother, he doesn’t always have to go through me. There are a handful of other people he could kidnap and harass for Sherlock’s sake. Greg Lestrade. Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson. Though—maybe not her. She would likely be too pissed off to be of help.”

“Mr. Holmes requested your presence specifically.” Anthea replied without so much as moving her gaze.

“He phoned Sherlock earlier, isn’t this about that? If he wants me he can just call. Unlike his brother, I actually answer my mobile.”

“There wasn’t a need for you earlier. Now there is, and this was the quickest way to reach you.”

“What could he want from me, then?” John raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Anthea said, still not even looking at her seatmate.

“Is that right?” John stared for a moment before shaking his head. The car bumped along the road as John waited for an explanation from the woman beside him.

True to form, Anthea continued to ignore John.

With a sigh, John fished a stick of gum from his Tesco bag, opened it and stuffed it in his mouth. If he couldn’t get her to respond by asking questions, maybe he could annoy her into a response by loudly chewing without closing his mouth.

~~~

When John was dropped off, he had been expecting to be lowered in to some sort of secret dungeon or pushed into a white room with padded walls, because this didn't make sense.

Every meeting he’d had with Mycroft had been either in some abandoned warehouse or in a public space.

So he was put off-balance when the car stopped in front of a beautiful house with an impressive garden on the other side of its wrought iron fence.

“So…” John turned to Anthea, now leaning against the car, still staring at her mobile. “Up the steps I go, yeah?”

Taking her silence as a yes, John turned back and headed through the open gate. He knocked at the front door and only had to wait a moment before he heard the lock tumble and saw the door open.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft greeted him with a handshake. Except John wasn’t entirely sure that it _was_ Mycroft, because he had never seen him in anything that wasn’t fit to show in Parliament. His suit jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves were rolled up over his forearms, and—

“Are you in your socks _?_ ” John blurted.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I typically wear them, yes. Do come in.”

John hoped he didn’t look as awestruck as he felt as he stepped in to the entry. It was grand without being gaudy, sensible while still retaining style. It was, in essence, perfectly Mycroftian.

“I apologise for bringing you here on such short notice, Doctor.”

“You don’t need to be polite for my sake.” John stated. Mycroft simply flashed a smirk in response. John breathed a huff before continuing with the small talk anyway—Mycroft might not appreciate it, but it helped John feel more at ease. “So, this is your home then? It’s quite, er, lovely.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, his tone indicating that he couldn’t care in the slightest what John thought of the place. “I don’t wish to monopolise too much of your time today. So if you would please follow me upstairs...” He turned around and waved John towards him.

With a roll of his eyes—so much for small talk—John followed him up the staircase and down the hall. Mycroft headed into one of the rooms and John followed him just inside before coming to a halt.

This was unexpected.

Mycroft’s taste was still evident in what was clearly some expensive furnishings. It looked like he might have hired an interior decorator however, because the decor was vibrant and youthful instead of muted and sophisticated. There was a colourful mural on the wall full of exotic animals, and a bookshelf stocked with picture books that John couldn’t imagine Mycroft sitting down to read.

The real shock, of course, was the small figure laying restlessly on the bed.

John wasn’t so poor at deductions that he hadn’t figured what was going on. Still, he felt a sensation akin to whiplash as he watched Mycroft approach the bed and gently comb his fingers through the child’s dark hair. Because that’s what it was—a boy, who looked no older than five, a sheen of sweat on his pale skin.

When Mycroft next spoke, it was with a noticeable downshift in volume. “I’ve someone to see you. Say hello to Dr. Watson.”

The boy didn’t so much as turn towards John. Instead, he let out a weak whimper and curled in on himself.

“Edward here’s taken ill today. I thought perhaps it was just a cold, but he’s had a fever the last few hours that’s been worrying me.” Mycroft said as if that explained everything.

Fine. John figured that if Mycroft wouldn’t clarify he could always ask Sherlock. In the meantime, there was a sick kid in front of him.

“I don’t exactly have all the tools necessary for a proper exam,” John began, “But I assume you knew that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft waved his hand in quick dismissal. “You should have enough to assure me if he needs to be in hospital, I should think.”

John nodded shortly before pulling his stethoscope out of his bag and heading towards the bed. “When’d you last get his temperature?”

“An hour ago. 38.8.”

“Let’s take it again; if it’s gone above that, I’d recommend hospital.” At this, Mycroft nodded and stood to fetch the thermometer on the nightstand.

 _Now, what was the kid’s name?_ John wondered, _Ah, yeah—_ “Right, then, Eddie. You think you can sit up for me? There’s a good lad!” The boy swayed slightly and blinked through sticky eyes. “Your dad’s—” John thought it safe to assume “—gonna take your temperature again.” Mycroft didn’t correct him, and the boy opened his mouth willingly for the thermometer. “Be sure to keep it under your tongue until we say so.

“Now I’m going to listen to your breathing with this.” He held up the end of the stethoscope, “If you could lift your shirt please. Thank you. Now this is gonna feel a bit cold, all right?”

The boy yelped when the chestpiece hit his skin, but he held still as John repositioned it and listened to his lungs.

 _Doesn’t sound like pneumonia,_ John thought.

“Hurts,” the boy complained.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Mm—tummy,” he slurred around the thermometer.

“Oh, do you think you need to—”

And then the boy’s pyjamas, bedspread, and John’s jumper were covered in vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End chapter one. Let me know your thoughts and stay tuned! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft, for what it was worth, had been polite and apologetic, offering to wash John’s jumper and lending him a shirt to wear in the meantime. While Mycroft had cleaned his son and started the laundry, John had taken a shower. When he emerged, Mycroft greeted him from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits.

“I’ve taken Edward’s temperature again—it’s lowered to 38.”

“Good,” John said, reaching for a mug, “The fever’s likely broken then. Long as he keeps his liquids down, I’d say you’re in the clear.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft began as he poured John’s tea, “you’ve put my mind greatly at ease.”

John almost gave his usual doctor’s response— _“Anytime!”_ —before remembering who he was dealing with and thought better of it, in case Mycroft took it as encouragement to seize him at random again. Instead, he hummed and sipped his too-sweet tea.

The silence allowed John to wonder why Mycroft was playing the dutiful host. Sure, it was good of him to clean up after his son, but the tea, the smiles, the kind words—it all pointed to the artful manipulation he’d come to associate with Mycroft Holmes.

“If I may,” began the man, as if Mycroft had once again sensed John’s thoughts. “While your time here was purely meant as that of a physician, it would be beneficial for the both of us to discuss what I’d wished to share with Sherlock earlier.”

John felt the vein in his forehead pulse in annoyance.

“The short of it is that I have a business trip coming up in five days. I will be away for a week. It was a very last-minute decision which I am unable to reschedule. As such, I am in need of childcare. I was hoping Sherlock might be willing to...” he trailed off, allowing John to finish his sentence.

“You want Sherlock and I to watch Edward while you’re away?”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Mycroft waved his hand in dismissal, “If it suits you, Sherlock could stay in my home with my son. They’d both be out of your way.”

Right. As if John was going to let Sherlock supervise a child on his own. Which, of course, was exactly why Mycroft was telling him this. An hour ago John didn’t even know Mycroft had a son and now he was implicitly asking John to babysit for a week.

“What about your parents?” John remarked.

“My father broke his hip and my mother has been taking care of him. Edward’s other grandparents are travelling abroad.”

“You must have regular childcare, though.”

“Yes, and she is currently on doctor ordered bed rest at 34 weeks pregnant.”

“You haven’t found a new sitter, then? You’ve had plenty of time to hire someone, I imagine.”

“Working on it. The vetting process is nothing if not thorough. I likely could have found a suitable replacement had I begun the process sooner, but, well... I admit to being reluctant to switch nannies. She’s looked after Edward ever since he was born, and he doesn’t always take well to change.”

“Well, then,” and John paused, unsure of how to respond. “I can’t assure you that Sherlock will agree. You know how he is.” He also couldn’t be sure how Sherlock felt about his nephew, given that he had never once mentioned the boy.

“All I ask is that you pass the information along and let me know his response. If he agrees, I will have a few stipulations I would like to go over.” With John as well as Sherlock, was the unspoken insinuation.

Mycroft rose from his seat and extended his hand for John to shake. “Thank you again, Dr. Watson.”

~~~

John wasn’t convinced that the past afternoon hadn’t been a strange dream. He had sat in Mycroft’s living room (on an expensive looking leather couch) watching telly (on an enormous TV set) eating chocolate fingers and waiting for his jumper to dry. Mycroft had retreated to his office while John waited, only coming out to fetch the laundry and check on Edward.

By the time John had walked into 221B Baker Street, it was nearly three hours past when he’d normally be home. Sherlock, peering at a something bright green from under a microscope, didn’t even look up.

“And how is my brother?”

“Irritating as ever,” John replied.

“Whatever he wants, I ask that you change and wash yourself before telling me. You _smell_ like him and it’s making me ill.”

“Ah,” John supposed it was a bit odd, coming home freshly washed from the home of his flatmate’s brother. He shuddered. _Right, let’s not think too deeply about that implication._ “Yeah, well, his son sicked up on me. You know, Edward? The nephew you’ve never seen fit to mention?”

“He never came up,” and Sherlock leaned back in time to see John’s face sour in annoyance. “But yes, Mycroft has a son, four years old and an absolute _darling,_ according to Mummy.”

“I’m more surprised by his existence than your not telling me, to be honest. Mycroft’s always seemed, I don’t know, above the pitfalls of the flesh and all that.”

Sherlock smirked. “My brother was once much more human. His wife passed away shortly after Edward was born, and he has since been very protective of the boy. You know how Mycroft is with me; now, imagine that tyrannical disposition let loose on its own flesh-and-blood child.”

John had to agree. Mycroft overbearing brand of concern would be a nightmare to grow up under. He thought back to his own rebellious teenage years and suddenly felt horrible for a future Edward.

But then he remembered how Mycroft was with his son; the affectionate touches and the gentle, soothing whispers. There was a genuine love there. For all his otherworldliness, Mycroft had seemed just like any other parent in that moment.

“Yeah, well, I suppose with you for a brother, Mycroft’s quite used to dealing with children.”

Now it was Sherlock’s face which soured. “So what did he want?”

“He said he’s going on a business trip and needs someone to look after Edward. He’s hoping that you’d be willing. Now, I’m alright with it, but… what?” John stopped mid-sentence.

Sherlock looked completely stunned, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“He… needs you to watch Edward?” John said with some uncertainty.

“I thought so. Excuse me.” And without explanation, Sherlock fished his mobile from his pocket and dialled his brother.

_“Yes?”_

“How will I know when he’s hungry?”

Mycroft replied without missing a beat. _“He’s four, Sherlock. He’s perfectly capable of telling you.”_

“And when he needs the toilet?”

_“Also excelling at toilet-training, thank you.”_

“And you trust me to watch him?”

 _“I…”_ and there was a very conspicuous pause, _“I trust that you will not hurt him.”_

“Hm,” Sherlock was not offended in the slightest. “John will be here.”

 _“If he wishes, yes.”_  Once again there was the unspoken implication that John’s _wishes_ weren’t really to be considered.

“You’re serious. I must have been your last choice.”

 _“No,”_ and Sherlock could picture Mycroft’s wry smile from over the phone, _“I can think of quite a few individuals I would rather not put my son into the care of.”_

“Yes, but you’re not asking me to do this because you’re ready for it. If you had truly been open to this idea, you would have visited my flat and asked in person instead of simply calling. You were banking on my ignoring when you phoned, so you couldn’t be accused of not exhausting your options. But John coming over and caring for Edward reassured you enough that you changed your mind.”

_“I… am not entirely reassured. If you don’t wish to take care of him, I’ll understand.”_

“I’ll do it.” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. _“I was afraid you’d say that.”_

~~~

For how ambivalent Sherlock had seemed to be about children in the past, John was surprised at how seriously he took his task. Mycroft had promised to provide them with everything Edward would need for the upcoming week. Yet John had still caught Sherlock looking through several parenting websites and typing a list of activities suited for child development.

“You may be overcomplicating things, Sherlock.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said as he flipped through one of the childcare books he’d purchased. “Edward is Mycroft’s son. If he inherited anything of my brother’s intellect, he is going to need proper stimulation.”

“How well do you know Edward?” John asked.

“Well enough,” Sherlock paused before elaborating, “I see him every Christmas, and occasionally when I visit my brother, and when I go home for Mother’s Day.”

“Right, but have you talked with him? Played with him? You have any sort of feel for his personality at all? I’m just trying to anticipate what we’ll be dealing with here, Sherlock.”

“Oh, he’s—I don’t know, he’s always been—loud. He would _screech_ sometimes and I hardly knew if it was from pain or pleasure.”

“Yeah, sounds about right for a kid his age. Anything else?”

“Mummy says he’s taken to reading.”

“Well, there’s something then.”

“I don’t know much else. He’s four, he’s hardly a person.”

“He’s old enough to have his own likes and dislikes, I would think.” John sighed, “Look, I’m glad you’re researching this. I just want you to remember that the advice you get in that book isn’t fool-proof.” _Or genius-consulting-detective-proof,_ John thought.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, John.”

“I know that. I’m just saying that kids are one of those things where experience matters.”

“Hmph. So, what, this is something like _sex?”_

John blinked. “Uh, no. Not—not at all like sex. You _do_ know what sex is, right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “I meant that it becomes easier to care for a child the more you are exposed to one.”

“Er… when you say ‘exposed’—”

“John, _really?_ Not what I meant!”

“Right.” John tried to gather himself after the confusion from that exchange. “Well, er, yeah. I mean, it’s enough to know the bare bones of childcare, but it helps to be familiar with the kid’s habits and so on.”

Sherlock set the book on the side table and raised his arms in a shrug.

“And what use is that information to me now? Edward will be here in less than a week.”

John couldn’t exactly disagree with him there. “Just… be adaptable.”

Sherlock gave John a look, reached for his book, and paused, hand hovering over the binding.

“Is it abnormal? To be so unfamiliar with your sibling’s children?”

John chuckled. “Not at all. A bit unfortunate, maybe, but if you think you’re the only man with sibling trouble, well, I’ve a bridge to sell you.”

Sherlock brought his hand to his chin. “If Harry had a child, would you get involved?”

“If Harry had a child I would definitely get involved, but only because I wouldn’t trust her to raise a kid properly. Mycroft, on the other hand—he’s reliable.”

Sherlock seemed to ponder this.

“You’re right; my brother is reliable. I suppose it would make sense that he wouldn’t want someone so unpredictable interfering with his son.”

John was confused for a moment. “You think he’s been intentionally keeping you away?” That would surprise John; for as long as he’d known Mycroft, the man seemed to be constantly trying to reign his brother in and keep him close.

“He did so for years. Even hid his wife’s pregnancy and Edward’s birth from me.”

John thought he heard real hurt in Sherlock’s voice. “That… seems a bit cruel.”

“He had his reasons.”

“Which were?”

Sherlock huffed. “At the time of Edward’s birth, circumstances were such that I was not… safe to be around.”

The drugs, then. John had assumed that Mycroft had distanced his son from Sherlock because of, well, the way Sherlock was. But yeah, the drugs made much more sense.

“You’ve been clean for a while now.” John reassured him, “I can’t say I blame Mycroft, but you’ve been doing good for a long time. It’s not fair to keep you from getting to know your nephew anymore.”

Sherlock snorted. “It’s not a matter of fairness _._ And he’s not trying to keep me from Edward, not like before.”

John could tell that Sherlock was trying to get somewhere with this line of talk. “So, what, now you’re purposely distancing yourself from him?”

Sherlock took in a breath, paused, and shrugged with an exhale.

“It hasn’t felt worth the risk. Not after what happened.”

“What happened?”

“I broke my brother’s trust. Horribly. It has taken years to rebuild it. And this… I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks it again.”

Sherlock kept his eyes downcast, averted from John’s gaze. And John realised, suddenly, that this was probably the first time he had ever heard his flatmate speak sincerely about Mycroft.

John walked over to Sherlock and rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘It won’t be,” he said firmly, “I’ll be here, every step of the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a slow writer, so in the future I will pace myself with publishing chapters. I kept reworking this one and neglecting upcoming chapters, so I just needed to publish it and be done with it.
> 
> I have a couple more chapters already written, but from here on out I'm going to pad out time between chapters in order to have a hopefully semi-regular schedule. (Most likely something like bi-weekly updates) But again, slow writer. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! :)


	3. Chapter 3

The day before Mycroft was set to leave, he paid a visit to the flat, umbrella tucked under one arm and a manilla folder under the other. Sherlock, ignoring his brother, continued to play his violin in front of the window. So John extended his arm and took the folder from Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft began, “Thank you so much for your willingness to help.”

“Well,” John began, “I imagine leaving Sherlock alone with a child would be in violation of the hippocratic oath.”

“In other circumstances I might appreciate that sort of humour,” Mycroft smiled politely, “But since this concerns my son, I’d prefer that we be a little more serious.”

Mycroft’s tone and expression were so pleasant that it took a moment for John to realise what he had actually said. Odd, he thought, that a man who kidnaps and interrogates others on a whim could seem so civil.

“At any rate,” Mycroft continued, gesturing toward the folder, “you’ll see here a detailed list of everything Edward will need for the week. His schedule, medical release, it’s all there. Please, look it over and let me know if you’ve any questions. I’d prefer to handle it while I’m still here. Of course, I’ll have my mobile on me at all times, so please…” he smirked, “try not to contact me unless necessary.”

“Ah, good.” John grabbed the folder and flipped through its contents, not really reading them. He was suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “So, what sort of schedule does a four-year-old have, exactly?”

“Sleeping and eating, mostly. Some structured learning time. There’s a bit of wiggle room there, but he’ll do better if he eats and goes to bed around the same time each day. Trust me—it’s as much for your sake as it is his.”

“Right…” John was slowly realising that while he had ample experience with kids in small doses (either by patients at his practise, family get-togethers or some short-lived babysitting gigs as a teen) he had never once held responsibility for a child for more than a few hours. And now he was minding one for an entire week?

“I trust you, John.” Mycroft interjected his thoughts. “You’ve tended to Sherlock all these years. Edward will be a piece of cake in comparison.”

John appreciated the assurance, even if he didn’t quite have the same confidence in himself.

“Speaking of cake,” Mycroft began again, “Please do your best to limit Edward’s sweets intake. One dessert after dinner, and only if he has behaved. He’ll try to negotiate otherwise if he thinks he can get away with it. I’ve had to remind Mummy of this dozens of times, so I’m rather tired of repeating myself on this fact. Care to comment, Sherlock?” Mycroft said abruptly, tilting his head toward where Sherlock was snickering from his spot by the window.

“Don’t wish to repeat history, I see.” Sherlock grinned. “You’re not setting a very good example, Mycroft. Isn’t there a saying for that?  _ ‘Do as I say, not as I do?’ _ ”

The elder man rolled his eyes and turned back to John. “Forgive my brother. I was somewhat… large, as a child. Still have a bit of a sweet-tooth, as well. I’d like to prevent my son from forming the same habits.”

“Understandable,” John replied. “It’s good, anyway, to teach kids healthy eating.” He ignored Sherlock’s sneer. “Don’t mind him—he’s been researching childcare like a madman. Think he’s rather excited, and I know he wants to do right by the two of you.”

_ “Wrong,” _ Sherlock deadpanned, but he offered no follow-up and turned back to his violin, which meant that John was likely spot-on.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied. “Have you any other questions about Edward?”

John searched for something to say.

“Er… any allergies?”

“None that I know of.”

“And he’ll be alright staying in the flat?”

“Of course.”

“How about goodnight phone calls?” 

Mycroft paused, caught off-guard, “I—yes. That would be acceptable.

A thought— _ This is the man who runs the nation _ —popped into John’s head, and he was once again struck by how odd it felt to see this side of Mycroft.

“If that’s all, then…” Mycroft stretched his hand toward John. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft had barely left the flat before Sherlock had snatched Edward’s file, slumped onto the sofa and begun to read its contents with his full attention.

“Bit eager there, yeah?” John commented.

Sherlock didn’t even roll his eyes. 

~~~

By the time the next morning rolled around, John was absolutely exhausted. He’d spent hours cleaning the flat, hiding Sherlock’s numerous experiments from a child’s reach, and making sure the fridge was adequately stocked with food for the week. Sherlock, for his part, had tidied his room and brought a blanket and pillow to the sofa. At John’s raised eyebrows, he had explained, “I rarely need my bed, and sleep is very important for a growing child.” John chose not to comment on how very  _ sweet _ that was of him. 

At 7:30 in the morning, as expected, Mycroft came to the door. Mrs. Hudson, who’d been warned of the incoming boy, greeted Mycroft with uncharacteristic warmth.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes! Lovely to see you. And who’s this?” She crouched as well as she could. “Well he’s a lamb, isn’t he? Hello, Edward! I’m Mrs. Hudson, but this week you can call me Auntie Hudson, if you like.”

Mycroft made a few abortive attempts to get around the woman.

John tried to intervene as Mrs. Hudson patted Edward’s head and offered to “pop by with some biscuits later” (at which the boy’s eyes widened and he lifted his head towards his father) but Sherlock beat him to it.

“There, now, Mrs. Hudson. Give the boy some air.” 

She moved to the side and with a nod Mycroft guided his son up the stairs to 221B.

There was an awkward pause as they entered. Edward clutched Mycroft’s hand and let his eyes wander around the room. “What’s that?” he pointed at the mantle.

“That’s my skull.” Sherlock deadpanned. John whirled his head towards the fireplace—of course in all his childproofing he had forgotten the skull! If Edward had nightmares, John knew who’d be to blame…

“Like a skelly-ton?” Edward’s eyes were practically bulging out of his head.

“Part of one, yes.” Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and saw his brother shooting daggers from his eyes. Pivoting from the conversation, Sherlock proclaimed, “I’ll take your things, er… get you settled,” and snatched Edward’s suitcase from his brother before heading to his bedroom. 

_ Thanks, mate, _ John thought as he watched his friend retreat.

“Daddy, why is there a skull?” Edward’s eyes darted from the mantle to his father. Yes, John was definitely going to pay for leaving the skull.

“There now, Edward.” He squeezed the boy’s hand gently before letting it go. “Your uncle will keep you safe, as will Dr. Watson. You remember him, don’t you?”

Edward’s face reddened and he averted John’s gaze. 

Recognizing the boy’s embarrassment, John tried to brighten him up. “Ah, that’s right, Eddie! How are you feeling?”

Edward continued to avoid John.

John tried again. “I remember you had a wicked painting of an African jungle on your wall. I’d have loved something like that as a boy.”

This time, Edward mumbled something, though John had no idea what.

“Come again?”

“Speak up, my boy,” Mycroft gently chastised.

Edward turned his head towards John, still keeping his eyes locked on the floor. “It’s not African, it’s South American.” 

“That so? How can you tell?”

Edward finally looked up, shifting his feet. “‘Cause toucans only live there. And jaguars live there, too.” His eyes brightened. “They’re very  _ big _ cats with lots and lots of spots!”

“Is that so? Like a cheetah?”

“No, no, no,” Edward replied, shaking his head, “Cheetahs are from Africa. Jaguars are from South America!”

“Hm,” John smiled, “And do you like cats, then?” 

Mycroft made a face of displeasure while Edward grinned wide.

“Katie has two cats. I like them loads.”

“His nanny,” Mycroft explained. “She’s instilled a bit of a preoccupation with animals.”

“Do you have a pet?” Edward eagerly asked.

“‘Fraid not.” And until he could trust Sherlock not to experiment on a dog, it was staying that way.

Edward pouted as Sherlock reentered the room. “You’re stalling, Mycroft. You’ll be late, and just because you  _ can _ manipulate flight schedules doesn’t mean you  _ should. _ ”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and kneeled in front of his son.

“You behave for your uncle and Dr. Watson, now. I’ll be back before you know it.” He looked like he wanted to say something more, but patted the boy’s shoulders instead. Ignoring the sudden panic on Edward’s face, Mycroft stood to his feet. “Thank you again, Sherlock, John. I’m very grateful for this.

“Happy to help.” John supplied.

“Right, now go! Leave! Vamoose! And for the love of god, don’t  _ touch _ anything; John’s used up all our disinfectant already.”

Mycroft shook his head and left without comment.

Then John and Sherlock were alone in their entry with the boy.  _ So this is it, then, _ John thought.  _ Officially responsible for the wellbeing of The Government’s son. _

Edward fidgeted where he stood, eyes darting from either man. 

“Er… have you had breakfast, then?” John asked. Edward nodded, sliding his gaze from John to the room. John saw the boy’s eyes return to the skull and stay there.

_ Say something, Sherlock, _ John glanced at his flatmate, but he could tell that Sherlock was as much at a loss for words as he.

Then Edward audibly sniffed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed, stomping towards the mantle, “It’s a skull _ , _ not a bomb!” He grabbed it and headed back towards Edward. “See? Completely harmless.”

“Sherlock…”

“You’ve got to be  _ logical _ about this— it’s a lifeless object _ , _ it can’t do anything!”

“Sherlock.”

“The only way it could hurt you is if someone threw it at your—”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock finally shut up, and  _ thank god, _ because Edward had backed up against the wall, eyes glistening with tears and locked on the skull.

“For the love of—” John snatched the skull from Sherlock’s hand and chucked it into the kitchen, where it fell into the sink, knocking into dishes.

“That was hardly necessary.”

“‘Hardly necessary?’ Sherlock, you’re scaring him!”

“I was trying to show him why he had no reason to be scared!”

“And couldn’t you see that it was having the opposite effect? ‘Genius consulting detective’ my arse!”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, affronted.

“Seriously, can you go five minutes without being an insufferable prick?”

_ “Language, _ John, you read Mycroft’s file—”

“Oh, so  _ now _ you’re concerned with Mycroft’s wishes.”

“You  _ know _ that I am taking this very seriously.”

“I—” John paused, taking a moment to see the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, “yes, I know. Look, I’m sorry. I know that you mean well and that you truly want to do well at this. Just— remember that I can help too. ”

John turned back to Edward and sighed. “Hey, Eddie. It’s all right, yeah? No more skulls, promise.”

Edward nodded his head in a quick jerking motion, but his chin was still wobbling.

“Um,” John fumbled, “How ‘bout we go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s? Her biscuits are to die for.”

Edward nodded again and wiped his eyes, smiling slightly.

“John—” Sherlock began, “The sweets rule…”

“Sometimes, Sherlock, needs must.”

John reminded himself not to slam the door on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the babysitting begins...
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love feedback also :)


	4. Chapter 4

An hour later, calmed by some grandmotherly comfort in the form of tea and biscuits, John escorted Edward back upstairs. Like any resilient four-year-old, Edward seemed to have entirely forgotten about the skull and was eagerly chirping away.

“I’ve  _ five _ books on dogs!” He climbed the stairs as quickly as his short legs allowed. “Did you know some dogs can sniff bombs? Katie told me.” 

“That’s amazing.” John slowly trailed behind Edward to the flat.

They stopped short when Sherlock whipped the door open.

“Edward,” Sherlock began, quickly. “Let me apologise for my earlier behaviour.” He stood in the entry for a moment, peering down as if waiting for a reply.

When he realised Edward wasn’t going to give him any response, Sherlock moved aside and let John usher the boy in.

“Now then,” Sherlock began, “I thought we might practice your letters. Come in and we’ll get started, yes?”

At the kitchen table, Sherlock had set out flashcards featuring colourful pictures and letters. John knew exactly where they came from, as Sherlock had asked that John buy them specifically (along with some numbered flashcards, two puzzles, and some surprisingly age-appropriate books. John had seen to including some colouring books and crayons as well.)

Edward didn’t hesitate to sit at the table, already sifting through the flashcards. He pointed at one. “Look, an elephant!”

“What letter does ‘elephant’ begin with?” Sherlock asked as he sat beside Edward.

“E!” Edward smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

John was relieved to see that Edward seemed to have forgotten entirely about the skull and Sherlock’s earlier pigheadedness. The ease in his flatmate’s shoulders led him to assume that Sherlock felt that same relief. 

“Hey, what does an elephant say?” John supplied.

Edward tucked his head into the crook of his arm, waved his hand up and down, and emitted a squealing sound that was probably as close to an elephant as a child could get.

“Hah, even got the trunk in there. Very nice!” John praised.

Edward grinned at the man. “Your turn now!”

John blinked. “Ah…” He fought to keep his eyes from turning towards Sherlock, who was probably giving him one of his superior smirks. Instead, he lifted his arm up and mimicked Edward’s elephant. When he brought his arm back down he glanced at his flatmate. Sure enough, there was that smug smile.

Giggling, Edward turned to his uncle. “Now Sherlock!”

Smile wiped from his face, Sherlock looked at his nephew. John thought he was going to refuse, but after a moment’s hesitation Sherlock brought up his arm and let out a very elephantish trumpet.

Edward clapped his hands and giggled. “Good job! Good job!”

When he brought his arm down, Sherlock had to smooth a hand over his face to hide his grin. John privately decided not to tease him about this later. Instead, he asked the boy, “Does your dad ever do that with you?” 

Edward bobbed his head up and down, already focused on a new flashcard.

At the image of an elephant-mimicking Mycroft, John and Sherlock shared a look over the boy’s head and smirked.

~~~

The day progressed without too much further hassle. Edward was lively as any other child but also incredibly polite. He said his please and thank yous, asked permission for his toys, and even tidied up after his messes. 

John didn’t know what he had expected Mycroft’s kid to be like. Posh, for sure, and perhaps a bit spoiled. But when John really thought about it, he supposed that he had expected Edward to be a mini Mycroft—standoffish, obsessive, controlling. But so far, Edward was very much his own little personality.

Not to say there weren’t traces of Mycroft in Edward. He could see a bit of the obsessive behaviour—aligning his flashcards  _ just so _ and getting upset when they were ruffled. The spoiled bit was also on the nose ( _ “Where’s your theatre room? I want to watch this on the big screen.” _ ) though it was clear that he wasn’t used to simply getting his way. 

But all that aside, Edward was a charming boy. John could now see that Mummy Holmes’ designation of “ _ absolute darling” _ wasn’t completely biased.

As for intellect, well, he was definitely above average. Their little exercise with the flashcards quickly revealed that not only did Edward know all his letters, but he was already reading full sentences—slowly and with a limited vocabulary, but the fact remained. Sherlock had immediately wanted to test this ability, snatching a novel off John’s portion of the bookshelf and handing it to Edward. The boy had struggled with the first word on the cover for several moments before growing red-faced and proclaiming, “This is stupid,” shoving the book back into his uncle’s hands. That was the moment John realised Edward had a little of Sherlock in him, too.

Sherlock’s experiment also proved that while Edward was advanced for his age, he was not what John would term a genius. John had to assume that Holmes’ trait would develop later in life—he couldn’t believe that a child of Mycroft’s would be anything less than brilliant.

By the time the evening rolled around, John was worn out. He supposed that had more to do with his frantic cleaning the night before than the day’s activities. John had offered to cook their dinner that night, a fact he was sorely regretting. Still, it would give Sherlock some time to bond alone with his nephew.

“What are you making?”

Or at least, he had  _ hoped _ Sherlock would take advantage of this time.

“Veg to go with our roast pork.” He continued chopping carrots, trying to concentrate on where the knife was. “Why isn’t Sherlock with you?”

“He’s on the phone.” Edward climbed onto a nearby stool. “Can I have a snack?”

“Nope, it’ll spoil your appetite. It’s nearly dinnertime”

“When’s dinner?”

“Dinner’ll be ready in…” John checked the oven clock, “40 minutes.”

Edward kicked his legs out from where he sat. “Can we play a game?”

John breathed out in exasperation. “I’m a bit busy—ask your uncle.”

“But I don’t wanna wait til he gets back.”

“He’ll be off his call in a mo’, I’m sure.”

“Nu-uh.” Edward twisted his head back and forth. “He’s not here.”

John paused. “What do you mean he’s not here?”

“He’s not here.” Edward repeated, both arms out in a shrug as if saying,  _ Are you deaf, old man _ ? 

John fought not to roll his eyes and rephrased his question.“Where’d your uncle go, then?”

“Downstairs.” Edward leaned on the counter.

John didn’t like the sound of that. He quickly slid the carrots into the pan and dumped the knife into the sink. “Right. Stay here.” He walked briskly to the flat door and opened it. “Sherlock?” He called down the stairs. Perhaps he was taking the call outside?

Just as John had started to descend the staircase, Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “You looking for Sherlock?” She asked. “I’m not sure where he went off to, only he said something about a diseased liver and to tell you that he’d be back in a bit.” She smiled. “Do you need something, dear?”

“I need to murder my flatmate.” John mumbled. He thanked Mrs. Hudson and trudged back up the stairs, clenching his fists. Once back in his flat, he grabbed his mobile and sent off a text.

_ And just why do u think it’s OK to up and leave the flat without telling me? _

John didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_ I told Mrs. Hudson. - SH _

_ U should’ve told me!! Actually, u shouldn’t have gone at all!!! _

_ It was urgent! - SH _

_ Then why didn’t u tell me? _

_ Because I knew this would be your response! - SH _

John gritted his teeth.

_ Get. Back. Here. Now!!!! _

The reply took a while to receive. John could picture Sherlock ruminating over his text, trying to settle on a message that he thought would mollify his flatmate.

_ I’ll be home in a few hours. I can bring a take away if you like. - SH _

_ I’M COOKING OUR DINNER RIGHT NOW U BERK _

A clanging noise stopped John before he could say more.

Whipping his head toward the kitchen, John saw the source of the noise just before he fell to the floor, dragging the pan of chopped vegetables with him.

John rushed to Edward. “You alright?” The boy in question lay dazed on the kitchen floor, carrots scattered around his body. Edward blinked back tears and nodded.

“What were you doing?”

“Wanted to help.” He mumbled. 

John lifted the boy up onto his feet and pushed the stool back over to the kitchen counter. He sighed at the sight of the vegetables ruined on the floor. Anger rose quickly and he swallowed down the urge to yell at the boy—incensed yelling was his dad’s typical form of parenting, and John wasn’t keen on emulating that particular family tradition.

Then he noticed something else, dotted on the tiles beside the fallen veg. 

It was blood.

The knife he had initially dumped into the sink was laying there on the floor. Edward must have fished it out in order to ‘help’. He turned his head toward the boy and saw blood dripping down his fingers.

“Your hand!” He gasped.

Surprised, Edward gazed at John before bringing up his right palm to inspect it. The boy took a moment to process the sight, eyes wide in shock. 

Then he burst into tears.

John supposed he could have handled that with a bit more tact.

It took a bit of work to calm the boy down enough to get a look at his hand. The blood was much more alarming than the actual injury—the cut was long but not deep. One large plaster and a mug of orange juice later, Edward was perfectly content.

In all that time John hadn’t had a chance to clean up the kitchen floor. While he replaced the juice in the fridge John looked down at the dirty tiles.  _ All that fresh produce to waste, _ he thought glumly.

Following John’s gaze, Edward frowned and his lip began to tremble. 

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to help.”

“It’s alright, I’ll tidy this up. Why don’t you go and watch telly?”

Edward nodded and trotted over to the couch. John sighed again and crouched down, cracking his knees, and began to pick up the fallen veg.

~~~

“I did not sign up for this.” John mumbled underneath his breath. He had agreed to help take care of Edward—key word being  _ help. _ He had not once agreed to being the sole caretaker of his flatmate’s nephew while said flatmate traipsed around doing God knows what. 

It had been nearly two hours since Sherlock had left for Bart’s. Since that time, John had patched up Edward, served a slightly burnt roast, played several rounds of tiddlywinks (failing on purpose once he realised that Edward was a bit of a sore loser), gotten the boy into his pyjamas and had somehow been conned into putting on an old Disney movie (which he had to rent over cable). 

John couldn’t even fully justify his anger—he should have known Sherlock would take advantage of him. He never had a problem doing so before. The only reason John had assumed this was different was because Sherlock had seemed so determined to be a good uncle. He supposed that determination must have waned once Edward was here.

The dalmatians on screen were being reunited with their owners just before the front door opened.

John decided not to acknowledge the approaching figure.

Sherlock stood in front of the doorway for a moment, assessing the situation. “Dinner?” He asked, hesitating slightly.

“In the fridge,” John replied, making no move to get up. Sherlock stood still for a moment, then headed towards the kitchen. Faint sounds of the fridge opening and closing, dishes being jostled and the microwave going were heard. John, felt, rather than saw, Sherlock reenter the sitting room.

“John.”

John tried to concentrate on the movie and not the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Edward seemed to be a doing a better job—the boy was practically mesmerised by the telly in the way that little children can get.

“John, I apologise.”

John slowly swivelled his head toward his flatmate, channelling as much cynicism as he could into his expression.

“There was a body down at Bart’s, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.” 

John simply raised an eyebrow.

“And you—and you left me  _ alone _ with him.” Sherlock at least had the decency to lower his volume when saying this.

“I was only in the kitchen,” John replied, also keeping his voice down. “You could have quite literally just walked in.”

“I know what you were trying to do, John. You wanted me to  _ bond _ with him as if I have any idea how to do such a thing.”

John chanced a glance back at Edward, who returned his gaze for a moment before turning back to the TV. “Look,” John got up and gently grabbed Sherlock by the arm, moving away from the boy. “I might have agreed to help with Edward, but he’s  _ your _ nephew. Mycroft wouldn’t have allowed you to watch him if he didn’t trust you. So you are just gonna have to take some responsibility here.”

Sherlock scoffed. “He trusts  _ you _ in this”

John smiled. “If Mycroft trusts my judgement, he knows I’ll make the right calls. And I trust you.”

Sherlock didn’t seem convinced.

“I mean, Sherlock, I have a shift at the clinic tomorrow. What did you think I was going to do, take Edward with me?”

“I thought—I thought Mycroft would cancel work on you.”

“Well it’s,” John checked his watch, “8:30 and I’ve yet to hear from the clinic. Think I’m likely to go in tomorrow, mate.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Then… what am I to do tomorrow, John?”

John patted his flatmate’s shoulder. “Mycroft gave us a good list of things to keep Eddie entertained. Just keep to the schedule. Mrs. Hudson can help as well.”

The mention of their landlady seemed to calm Sherlock.

“You can’t just leave him with her and go off on your own.” John reminded.

Sherlock frowned again.

“Uncle Sherlock!” The high-pitched voice had both men twisting around.

Edward was trotting up to his uncle. “Do you want to watch telly with me?”

“Your movie’s finished, then.”

“Yeah.” The boy picked at his teeth. “Can we watch another?”

“Hm,” Sherlock paused for thought, “No, I believe it’s bedtime. None of that, now—” Edward had begun to pout— “Brush your teeth and wash up. After that we’ll call your father goodnight.” 

Edward had swivelled toward the bathroom and taken one step before Sherlock grabbed his arm.

“Wait.” Sherlock took the boy’s hand, inspecting the bandage. He shot his gaze upwards and John was briefly taken aback by Sherlock’s cold stare. “You let this happen?”

“Took my eyes off him for just a moment while I was trying to get a hold of you.” He wasn’t proud of the accusation in his voice but hoped it would guilt Sherlock enough to pacify him.

Sherlock’s exhaled through his nose and nodded before dropping Edward’s hand. “Fine.”

He shooed his nephew into the bathroom but stopped short of following him in. “I was only away for two hours. If I’m to have him by myself tomorrow, this is the least you could do.” He tilted his head toward the door.

John rolled his eyes but at that point, he was too tired to argue.

“Alright, but tomorrow dinner’s on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit of reworking and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. Sherlock is still a bit unsure how he's supposed to approach this guardianship thing but fear not--overconfident and aggravating Sherlock will rear his head soon enough ;)
> 
> At this point I'm all caught up with the chapters I'd finished, so updates will probably be spread further apart. I'm still hoping for bi-weekly updates. However the weather's finally getting good and I'm hoping to maximize my time outdoors and not sitting in front of a computer, soooo updates may move to monthly.
> 
> Thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts!! :)


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, John was glad to be back in the clinic. He’d take a dull morning treating colds and ear infections after the exhaustion of tending to an energetic four-year-old and his uncle. Plus, it would give Sherlock a chance to show off how responsible he could be. 

Before John left that morning, Sherlock had seemed reinvigorated. He’d actually cooked breakfast for the three of them (something John didn’t think Sherlock even knew  _ how _ to do) and showed John a list of activities he’d compiled the night before in preparation for the day. Sherlock’s list was mostly referenced from Mycroft’s file, but he had also thought up his own original activities to share with the boy—most notably a trip to the park as “the weather’s to be quite mild today.” John assured his flatmate that this was all a very good idea and went to work feeling rather pleased for Sherlock.

Ordinarily he kept his phone in his briefcase during work—a habit he’d picked up after being rushed to 221B for something completely trivial one too many times. But this week, John was allowing Sherlock to send him any questions he might have (with the stipulation that he go to Mrs. Hudson if it was urgent). Their amusing messages between patients was making the day go by quite smoothly.

~

_ Apparently my knowledge of pygmy monkeys is insufficient. Been told that this is something all grown ups should know. He is definitely my brother’s child. - SH _

_ Wait til he learns u dont know anything about the planets _

_ God, one thing at a time please. - SH _

_ ~ _

_ He’s watching a children’s program called ‘Shaun the Sheep.’ Please send help. - SH _

_ Bored? _

_ Obviously. - SH _

_ U could answer emails. Maybe u will find a good case _

_ I didn’t want help dying faster, John. - SH _

_ ~ _

_ Took Edward to Hyde park. [see attachment: IMGj59Bk.jpg] - SH _

_ Looks like u 2 had fun! :)  _

_ He enjoyed the playground. I received the numbers of a few single mothers there. Maybe you can take him yourself sometime. Could help you land a date. - SH _

_ Id rather not thanks _

_ ~ _

_ How can one child be so hungry, eat so much and still be so small? Think he may not be my brother’s child after all. Already texted Mycroft to discuss. - SH _

_ “I ask that you not give my son a complex this early in life. Don’t contact me unless it is absolutely necessary.” Something like that? _

_ Your Mycroft is scarily accurate. Honestly, I’m impressed. If you can text with proper grammar why haven’t you been doing so all this time? - SH _

_ Its easier texting LiK3 tHi$ _

_ Judging by how long it took you to send that, I think not. - SH _

_ ~ _

_ Edward is playing zookeeper. He wants me to be a zebra. Trying to negotiate otherwise. - SH _

_ Maybe he’ll let you be a panther. Seems more ur style. _

_ Can’t text. Zebras don’t have thumbs. - SH _

~

After that, there was a lull in messages. John hoped that meant Sherlock was spending time with Edward—and that he hadn’t left the boy with Mrs. Hudson in order to go gallivanting elsewhere. As it was, the last half of John’s shift was rather busy and he had little time to answer texts anyway. When he was just getting off work, John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket once again. He pulled it out, expecting to see another amusing message from Sherlock. Instead, he was getting a phone call from one Greg Lestrade.

_ Uh-oh. _

John lifted his phone to his ear with no small about of trepidation. “Hello?”

_ “Hey, John, it’s Greg. Why does Sherlock have a kid with him?” _

“Er, it’s his nephew. He’s babysitting this week.”

_ “Right. Good, good.” _ Greg sounded mildly relieved to hear this.  _ “Sorry, some of the detectives were worried he’d… well, I believed Sherlock when he said it, but just wanted to hear it confirmed, that’s all.” _

“It’s alright. Um, you’re with the other detectives?”

_ “Yeah, that’s the other thing. Sherlock’s brought the kid to a crime scene.” _

“He’s done  _ what?!” _ That was it. Edward would be traumatised and Mycroft would be furious and John was entirely done in.

_ “We’ve kept the kid from seeing anything, Sally’s with him, but you might wanna come and pick ‘im up.” _

“Right, right.” And John took down the address from Greg, hailed a cab and took off toward the crime scene.

_ Sherlock, _ he thought, quietly fuming in the back of the taxi, _ you complete and utter berk. _

~~~

When John arrived, the police had cordoned off a tight alleyway between two blocks of flats. He jogged quickly toward the scene and ducked under the tape, twisting back and forth in an effort to find either Holmes. 

“John!” a voice turned John back around where he spotted Greg in the back doorway of one of the flats. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Inside, s’where the body’s at. Look, Sally’s with the kid over by the cafe down there, and she in’nt too happy to be babysitting. I really want Sherlock to look this over right now, but if you could—”

“John!” exclaimed Sherlock, popping from behind Greg, “Perfect, come in, I need your help.”

Twin glares greeted Sherlock’s request. Unfazed, he smiled and started back in the direction he came. “It’s an eight,” rang out in a sing-song voice.

John sighed and followed him in despite Greg’s protests of “Sally’ll kill me, please!”

Inside the flat, Sherlock was circling the body, eyes darting back and forth in that way which meant he was deducing. John did his own observation. The man on the floor was laying on his back, clothes torn and covered in mud. He had a bit of a gut and a head of thinning hair which led John to assume he was middle-aged. His face was quite swollen, bruises still visible beneath his pallid skin and blood dried to the side of his head, which was caved in quite gruesomely on one side.

“So who’s this then?”

“Warren Burns. 41 years old. Single, no immediate family, runs an exotic pet shop on the south side. Was discovered earlier today by his flatmate. Some of their belongings were missing; appears they were the victim of a break in gone bad.”

“At face value.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock circled back to the man’s head. “There’s very little blood beneath him; none elsewhere. No dirt to be seen either. The floors to the hall and entryway have been wiped clean, as has the pavement leading into the alley.”

“The body was moved here.”

Sherlock nodded. “At first glance, it appears he died of blunt force trauma. Check behind his left ear.”

John did, and found a small hole. “He’s been shot.”

“The bullet exited right here—” Sherlock pointed to the bloody, caved-in section of the man’s head, “—makes it hard to see initially, but the police aren’t so inept that they didn’t notice it either.”

“Right,” Greg startled John as he reentered the flat, “So far, you know everything we do.”

“So he was beaten, shot, and dumped in his flat.” John turned back toward Sherlock, “But…?”

“But  _ how _ he was beaten, that’s the first mystery here. Care to examine, John?” He pulled gloves from a box left on the countertop by forensics.

John donned the gloves and wandered to the body, beginning by lifting the man’s shirt. Large, dark red and purple bruises spattered over the man’s stomach and chest. “He had heavy internal bleeding—” John gently pressed against the man’s rib cage, “—as well as some broken bones.” He sat back on his heels. “Honestly, I don’t think he was beaten in the traditional sense. If it was done by a person with an object, the bruising would be more scattered and smaller. It looks to me like he was hit by a car or something.”

“Except,” Sherlock began, “The mud.”

“What of the mud?”

“His shoes are covered in it, got it all over his clothes, but there’s no tire marks anywhere. Wouldn’t muddy tires leave tracks?”

“Well, he coulda just been hit and gone flying. Didn’t have to be run over.” Greg interjected.

“ _ Think _ , George.” Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s twitch at the wrong name, “You’re trying to kill someone, so you hit him with your car. How do you make sure you absolutely got the job done?”

Greg snorted. “Hit ‘im a few more times for good measure, I suppose.”

“Right. But there’s no sign that someone ran him over after. Plus, there’s the bullet wound.”

“How does that factor into it?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked. “Let’s keep playing this game of hypotheticals. You try to kill a man with your car, only to realise he isn’t quite dead. So you take your gun—something deliberate, point-blank, and much more traceable—and you kill him. Why not just use your initial weapon of choice to finish the job?”

“Perhaps…” John felt silly but supposed he’d said sillier things in front of Sherlock, “Perhaps the car, er, ran out of petrol?”

“Not much explanation beyond that, is there?” Sherlock continued to smirk, “Seems a bit banal. Unless we’re not looking for a car.”

John and Greg shared a look before turning back to Sherlock. “What do you think caused all the bruises, then?” John asked his flatmate. Sherlock grinned and locked eyes with John.

“Something much more interesting.”

~~~

John and Sherlock searched around the flat a bit more but couldn’t find any other clues as to what had happened. In the end, Lestrade finally got them to leave after some very angry and threatening texts from Sally.  _ Oh, god, _ John thought,  _ I’d completely forgotten about Edward. The four-year-old Sherlock decided to bring to the scene of a bloody homicide. _ John knew they’d have to discuss this—especially if Sherlock intended to investigate this case—but tabled that conversation for later. Together he and Sherlock made their way around the corner to a small cafe. There they found the boy, sipping a tall frozen milkshake topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce, a huge smile plastered onto his face.

“Blimey,” said Edward’s companion, nursing a much lower-calorie iced coffee, “Took you long enough. I’m a detective, not a nanny.”

“What, no ‘kill any puppies today, Freak?’ I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, well,” Sally eyed Edward, “S’pose I can give it a rest for today… Poor lad probably hears enough rotten words at home, huh?”

John could feel the tension seeping from the two other adults. He made an attempt to calm everyone down. “Edward, thank Sally for watching you and getting you that nice drink.”

“Thank you, Sally!” The boy chirped between slurps.

Sally gave Edward a weak smile before turning back towards Sherlock, “I’ll expect a full reimbursement for that. It wasn’t cheap.”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine, I’m ever so grateful for your contributing to the childhood obesity epidemic. You can take it from my consultant’s cheque after I solve this case that you and the rest of the Yard will fail.” He motioned to his nephew. “Come along now, Edward, and hand that disgusting concoction to me. You’re not to have sweets before supper.”

Edward simply continued to slurp at his straw. Sherlock blinked like he hadn’t been expecting Edward’s refusal.

“Edward.” Sherlock began, tone shifting into something more commanding, “Get up. It’s time to go.”

This time Edward did as Sherlock said but kept the drink, which look comically oversized in his hands.

“ _ Edward, _ ” Sherlock said, frustration clearly mounting, “Give me the shake.”

“But I want it,” Edward looked up at his uncle, eyes glassy. “It’s mine.”

“You can finish it after supper.”

“But it’s  _ mine! _ ” 

“Hand it over!”

“It’s  _ MINE! _ ”

And Sherlock lunged for the drink, startling his nephew into squeezing its plastic base, which sent its contents flying. 

There was an odd few seconds where none of the adults in the cafe moved. Whipped cream dripped noisily from Edward’s chin. His face grew red and he dropped the cup to the floor in disgust. Then he began to  _ scream. _

Sherlock and John reared back in mutual horror. Several onlookers gaped as Edward fell to the floor and started kicking his legs.  _ Day two and we’re already having tantrums in public places. _ John could feel his face grow hot and suddenly wanted to apologise to every parent he’d ever judged when their children acted out.

“I-it’s alright, Edward, get up and we’ll get you another—”

“No, John!” Sherlock glared at his flatmate. “He’s not to have sweets and he disobeyed.”

“You should’ve just let him finish what he already had!”

“What I should have done doesn’t matter. I told him to hand it to me and he refused. We are  _ not _ encouraging this behaviour.  _ Edward!”  _ Sherlock snapped at the boy, “Get off the floor this instant!” The boy continued to cry in dramatic fashion.

The other occupants were eyeing the scene and murmuring to each other. “Edward, this is ridiculous. Stand up. I’m not asking again.” Sherlock was sounding increasingly flustered (John could see Sally’s eyes widen in surprise) and had adopted a pink tinge to his complexion. Edward kicked and cried and acted as if he hadn’t heard a word from his uncle. Sherlock swallowed. “All right.” Then he bent down and scooped a wriggling, sticky Edward into his arms. “Let’s go home,” he grit out from clenched teeth, struggling to keep hold of the boy. John swivelled his head from the mess on the floor to the employees glaring at him to his angry flatmate.

“Yeah,” John said, heading to the exit and shrugging apologetically to the staff. He held the door open for Sherlock, who paused in the doorway, spun back towards Sally and extended one finger towards her. 

“This is your fault.” Then with a flourish Sherlock and his sobbing nephew were out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished this chapter ahead of schedule, surprisingly! :) I'm not planning on veering too far into casefic territory; we will see more and more of the Sherlock/Edward dynamic in upcoming chapters.  
> Thanks for reading and let me know your thoughts!! :)  
> EDIT AUGUST 4TH: I've not abandoned this!!! Life caught up with me, but I will hopefully start working again soon!


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